The Hard Count(99)

The stands erupt, and the band pumps out the fight song with enough verve that it shakes the metal floor beneath us.

“Oh my God,” Valerie says, over and over, her hands wrapped around my mom’s. Travis’s mom rushes over to us, hugging my dad, then both my mom and Valerie. The men celebrate, reliving the play, and students start to rush the field as the announcer confirms that The Tradition, once again, is going to the State Playoffs.

There are balloons, and my best friend dances her horrible dance, throwing in a few cartwheels with some of the other cheerleaders. Alyssa breaks free and runs down to join them, while even more people spill out onto the field.

The players bump fists and chests, and they all surround their coach, moving like a swarm toward the end zone, taking pictures and celebrating. My eyes search for Nico, and when I find him, he’s on his knees, his head in his hands and his helmet on the ground next to him, Sasha at his side. His shoulders shudder once, and my breath hitches with my cry.

“Daddy,” I say, reaching for my father’s arm.

“I see him. I see him,” my dad says, stepping over the seat in front of him, leaping over the bar to the track and jogging out onto the field.

People have begun to quiet, and the team has started to look on, many of them taking their helmets off, taking a knee while the boy who owns my heart tries to mend his broken one on the fifty-yard line.

I hold Valerie’s hand, and we squeeze each other hard as my dad rushes to Nico. He falls to his knees, too, Sasha standing behind him, and my dad holds his forehead to Nico’s, his hands gripping his shoulders while Nico shakes with grief.

“I can’t…” I say, letting go of Valerie and following my father’s path, sprinting the minute my feet hit the turf until I’m at Sasha’s side.

Nico’s friend puts his arm around me, and I cling to him while Nico cries so hard that his voice is incoherent, nothing more than moaning wails as my father lifts him to his feet and brings him to his chest to hug him tightly.

“I know, son. I know,” my dad says, his fingers flexed around the back of Nico’s head. “You did good. You were so good. He would be proud. You made him proud.”

My eyes burn with tears as Sasha’s hand rubs my back. He fights to fall apart on his own. Nico’s hands cling around my father, gripping his shirt, and he buries his face in my dad’s chest, his body shaking with each heavy sob. My dad continues to hold him tight, praising him over and over again while the rest of our world looks on.

My eyes scan the crowd, and people are still—voices hushed, mouths closed. The Tradition is still, every guy on the team now on a knee, even the coaches. We all wait while Nico grieves. I wish I could take his pain away. I wish I could reverse time, to somehow change the course of history so his brother wasn’t in the Humvee that was attacked by a rogue group of separatists. I wish Nico had more than the flag given to his mother, more than the golden star that is pinned to the sleeve of Nico’s jersey. I wish he had his brother. I wish Alyssa had her father.

I wish. I wish. I wish.

The silence is heavy, and I can tell we’re all beginning to feel it. Minutes pass with Nico in my father’s arms until he finally steps from my father’s hold, bending down to pick up his helmet. Nico runs his arm over his eyes, his focus on chalk paint of the fifty-yard line and the grass just a few steps ahead of him. He nods to himself slowly as the crowd begins to clap, and their support sends him to tears again, only this time he’s ready for feeling it. Nico raises his helmet in one hand and tilts his face to the sky, turning in a slow circle, his other hand a fist against his mouth. He kisses it finally, letting it go and pointing to the stars, swaying and talking to his brother—talking to the heavens.

When he looks back down, his eyes find me, and I rush to him, falling into his arms, leaping and wrapping my legs around him while he drops his helmet and holds me tight, crying into my neck.

“I’m so proud of you. He would be so proud, Nico,” I say. “He is. I know it.”

Nico kisses my neck and holds me close, holding a hand up again to acknowledge the people still cheering for him. His hoarse voice whispers, “Thank you,” in my ear, and I slide from his hold, but remain at his side while every single player and coach talks to him.





22





Since my lips first touched his, perhaps even well before that, I knew in my heart that there was no winning a debate against Nico Medina. But since that time, in our days together, I’ve learned why.

He has simply lived too much for my small life to be able to compare.

“More’s idea that we make thieves, and then we punish them, is the basis for so many modern moral tales,” Nico says.

I watch him dizzily, awed by his speech on our reading of Utopia. When Mr. Huffman calls my name, I only startle.

“Huh? Oh, no…I…I actually agree with him on this. I’ve got nothing,” I say.

Mr. Huffman’s eyes narrow on me and his mouth forms a tiny tight smile, mocking me for giving in so easily to the boy I like.

But that’s it. I don’t just like Nico Medina. He has my heart, completely. In the weeks since his brother’s death, I’ve watched Nico become even more of a man of his house, helping his mother through funeral arrangements, benefits for Alyssa, and now court hearings to ensure that his niece stays with them.